Thursday, 19 August 2004


Arriving at the doctor's in a torrential downpour, summer coat soaked through, sandals ruined and red hair dye running down the middle of my face (tis a flawed method of colouring that I use but its the only way to get it to be bright and striking enough), the horrible receptionist asked rhetorically, "are you wet?". I managed a no-eyes-smiling sneer in response.

I hate the doctors and it isn't really the doctors themselves its the receptionists. Fascist gossipy old cows the lot of them.

So anyway, during the smear test you normally grit your teeth and think of the cracks in the ceiling until its over. Yesterday the practice nurse (who I think is a little nutty) treated me like I'd never had one before and gave me a very detailed scenario to think about to help me present my cervix in an easily-reachable manner. It went like this:

Imagine you step into a lift and find a gorgeous guy in there but suddenly realise you need to fart (I'm telling you, this would never happen, or if it did you'd actually have to leave the lift) - so what you do is relax your bum and legs so you can let the fart slide out silently (& would you really want to deal a silent, but violent, one into a lift with a gorgeous guy?)

So I'm lying on the bed with a lamp shining up where the sun doesn't usually shine trying hard to get the scenario right but stopping before the actual farting bit and becoming very confused with which muscles are supposed to relax. I end up thinking how high the ceiling is. I was relieved to take my soaked and cold self back out into the street so I could dispense with all the make-believe.

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